Third Shelf Heart Break
by ShnabbyTheMouse
Summary: Bella discovers what, to her, is the most heart-breaking thing she could find in the Dwyer household. Why does a simple can of beer make her so distraught? AH OneShot


**Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight or anything to do with it.  
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I stood in front of the open refrigerator, grasping my chest, pain replacing the blood in my veins; rejection taking place of my heart.

I had been in the Foster program for ten years, or, in other words, since I was seven. It really wasn't as bad as some people made it out to be. Yes, there were some bad homes out there, but there were also some good. Sure, you don't necessarily have a stationary life, but you usually stay in a home for around a year. It wasn't unusual for a kid to be in the system for over seven years, but it wasn't really common either.

I had lived with Renee and Phil for two years now, and they had been the happiest two years I had experienced. Sure, only a spare few of the Foster homes were actually bad, but these people, this _family_, made it seem like I was their own. They didn't make me feel like I was a guest in their home, but like I had always belonged here. I had just waited fifteen years to show up.

I had just left a bad home when Phil and Renee took me in. I had been abused in the Ray's household for three months before the school nurse I frequented reported it to the authorities. I walked into the Dwyer household holding little trust for humanity, suspicion battling depression in the fight to be my over-ruling emotion. But they welcomed me with warm, genuine smiles.

They helped me out of my shell, they showed me love, that not all people were horrible. Phil was the father figure that Charlie had failed so miserably in being. He was protective and playful, kind but firm. He was a successful architect and played baseball with friends on weekends. He was a very competitive man, always adopting a very colorful language when game day came around.

Then there was Renee. She wasn't exactly what one would call mature, and maybe a little impulsive, but a great mother, nonetheless. She was understanding and sympathetic and she loved to have fun. Only a person like Renee would be able to teach Kindergarteners for eight years and not go insane. She loved watching over other people's kids, but had been too afraid to have her own. This feeling is what led them to try Foster Care, which brought me to them. They were the white that helped distract me from the grey and the black of my past.

My eyes brimmed with tears while I stared into that damned fridge, not being able to peel my gaze away from the third shelf.

I had never really known my biological mother. She had left Charlie when I was thirteen months old and it, from what Billy told me, destroyed him. He had never been abusive, but he was a little more than slightly neglective. Being seven, I couldn't do much on my own. His depression would cripple him to his bed for days at a time, where we devised a system of me waiting about a day of his lack of appearance before calling Billy and telling him that "Daddy's sick". Billy would come over with Jake and take care of me until Charlie emerged from his room.

Jake had been my absolute best friend, he was basically my brother. He didn't have a mom either, which made him just like me in my eyes. We both enjoyed keeping company with people that we didn't have to feel envy towards. I didn't have to worry about going over to his house, see his mom kiss his cheek and wonder what it felt like. He didn't fear coming over to my house and see my mom hold me close and wonder if it was more gentle than his dad's hugs. Though I could still be jealous of his dad's stability, I never really was. I saw Billy as my dad, too, and you can't be jealous of what you already have.

I didn't remember much about my early childhood, I tried to block out most of my memories. I didn't want to recall things like waking up to nightmares and having to comfort myself back to sleep, or the long hours Charlie would spend on the couch staring at a television set he hadn't even bothered to turn on. Memories of that sort were the kind that had me holed up in my room, laying under the blankets and staring at the wall for hours on end.

The small light bulb in the fridge reflected off of the shiny surface of the aluminum can. I put the ketchup bottle to it's side, to stop the shine, but it only made the can look dark and sinister. My mended heart shattered all over again at the sight of the beverage.

In my ten years, I had been in too many foster homes to count, but I'd guess around fourteen or fifteen. My feelings towards departures from homes were always different. Some were sad, some were joyous and relieving, some were indifferent, and one was even unconsciously.

I had felt close to families before, but never as close as I did with the Dwyer's. Where as there had always been at least a slight awkwardness in other homes, this couple had always made me feel comfortable. There had never been an evil hand laid on me in this home like in other homes.

There had been many a time when I had wanted to hate Charlie, times when I wanted to call him and tell him all of the horrible things that had happened to me due to his neglect and abandonment, but I couldn't. He wanted to give me a better life than he could provide, he had done this out of love, not hate. He saw this as his only choice.

Both he and Billy had tried to give custody over to Billy, but the court had deemed him unfit to handle foster children. His disability, the fact that he already had a small child, and that he had no help with all of this didn't play well with the government. Harry Clearwater, also one of the men that helped my father, had tried to get custody of me as well, but his heart problems didn't fare well with the judge either. So Charlie went with his fallback and put me into Foster Care. For, what he thought, was best for both me and him. He had only been halfway right.

Two and a half years ago, during my stay with the Ray's, I got a letter from my childhood address. It took me two days to work up the courage to open it, and when I finally did, I read it three times over before my nerves actually let me understand what he was saying. It was mostly apologies, there were updates on Billy, Jake, and Harry and at the end he told me he was on medication and seeing a therapist three times a week to help his depression. That the thought of being able to get me back was the best incentive to get better. He told me that he loved and missed me more and more everyday and that he hoped to hear back soon before ending the letter. I never wrote back.

But I kept the letter and read it everyday, it being the only proof that someone loved me. It gave me hope, hope that Charlie would get better and take me back, or that I would at least make it out of that hell hole soon.

My eyes analyzed the red letters on the can, '_Coors_'. I shut the fridge door and ran back to my room as quickly and silently as I could, not wanting to wake up Phil or Renee. I wouldn't be able to face them knowing my fate.

Alcohol and I didn't exactly have a good past. One would venture to say that I was completely and utterly terrified of it. Before Charlie had made the announcement that I'd be leaving, I had noticed more and more shiny aluminum cans laying around the house.

The first family I had stayed with, the Sanders, I had completely loved. Though I had just, in a way, lost my dad, I had cherished the fact that I had a mother figure. It was just the two, Jack and Marla, a couple in their mid thirties. I had been with them for nine months, and though they were still a little distant from me, I idolized them. Then, one day, Jack comes home from work early and announces that he lost his job. Within a week he was on the bottle, within three I was out of there.

Then there were the Sterling's. The family was nice enough, and my still naïve eleven year old self had, yet again, gotten very attached. I loved and trusted them within seven months. Their seventeen year old son was more than slightly rebellious. One night, somewhere around three in the morning, they got a call saying that their son had been in a car accident and was in critical care at the local hospital. They ran me to the car and we rushed off. He died an hour after we got there. We had later been told that he had been driving home from a party, heavily intoxicated, and went off road, running into a tree in the process. I was shipped off the next day.

I snuck out of the window of my room, backpack on shoulder. I hopped down the four feet that separated window ledge from ground and walked to the sidewalk in front of the house. I sat there and just stared at the simple white, two story house that had been my sanctuary for the past two years and wondered how long I would still be able to call it home.

Over the course of time I had received one more letter, a year ago, from Billy. There had been more stories about Jake, about how he still called me his best friend, even though he had some Vanessa, or Nessie, as he liked to call her, girl that he was pretty serious with. He told me about Harry's heart attack, which killed a small part of my heart upon reading. And, lastly, he told me about Charlie and how much more alive he was. About how he hardly ever got 'sick' anymore, how he went out fishing and got promoted from sheriff to chief at the station. He had even re-painted the walls in the house, the one's that my mother had painted before leaving. He was _so much better_. And I knew by that letter that if I replied to Charlie's letter, he might not take me back, but I could still be a part of his life. But I didn't want to.

My life was so good at the moment. I had a mom and dad that paid attention to me, never abandoned or forgot me, that _loved _me. I was doing great in school, only math not coming very easily to me. I wasn't very good with people my age, but I had at least one really close friend, Angela Weber. I was happy, which was something I didn't believe I had ever been. I wasn't living on the past, I didn't want the past coming back and fucking my semi-perfect life up.

Now, that was all going away. I would move away from all of the people that I met, go to some new family for eight months, then be kicked out, all alone, without anyone I could call "Family". So I pulled a piece of paper out of the backpack and a pen and started.

_Dear Charlie,_

I stared at the paper for at least fifteen minutes. Nothing came to me, I had nothing to tell him. I crumpled the paper up and threw it into my backpack.

I pulled out my sketchbook and a pencil, I sat on that sidewalk, drawing the house in as much detail as I could for hours. I sketched the three front steps, and the way how the twelfth brick to the right on the second step had a deep gash on the front of it. I drew the big pine tree in the front yard and detailed in the bark that was stripped on the left side from where I had picked off while reliving ancient memories. Five hours, three joggers, hundreds of pencil shavings, and half a million pencil strokes later, I had a perfect copy of my sanctuary that I could keep forever. No matter where I was.

Out of roughly fifteen homes, I had been abused in three. Twenty percent of the homes I've lived in have been awful. Only one of those homes, only six percent of those houses, had been completely and horrifyingly dreadful. The only things I couldn't keep my mind from forgetting were these small flashes. Pictures of Handcuffs, chains, cages, brutal fists, drunken men, and sick bastards that forced needles filled with tan liquid into your bloodstream when you didn't cooperate. Thankfully, I usually cooperated.

One time, though, I had been especially uncooperative and the leader of them all, Aro, as he said his street name was, hadn't enjoyed my unwillingness much, pulled a needle from the kit he kept on his belt, like some kind of super villain. It had seemed a bit more full than usual, and I knew, I had that feeling, that tonight was not going to end well. Before I could think, he grabbed my arm, shoving the needle into a vein, and pushing down the top.

Within minutes, I was burning up. The sweat was poring down my face, and my body was convulsing. I collapsed on the floor, right as the door to the abandoned house was broken down and streams of cops flooded the place. The last thought that went through my mind 'I'm going to die of Methamphetamines at fourteen.'

I woke up in a hospital a week later and was filled in on what was happening. They told me about helping me come down slowly, about my overdose, about the eleven other kids that had been smuggled into The Testing Grounds, as they called it, being set free to other homes. How one of them had been beaten to death, the cops being too late for him. I was quiet until she told me about how I would stay for another week before going to a nice, loving family. "Bullshit." I was right, I was sent to the Ray's household the next week.

I climbed back in through my window. I was only half way up when Renee came barging into the room, her eyes immediately falling on me. She stared at me in shocked surprise, I stared back with sad, heartbroken eyes. I broke eye contact and went on pulling myself inside. "You snuck out last night?" She asked, shock masking her voice like it was her expression.

I put my backpack on the bed, "I stayed in the front yard, I was just sketching." My voice didn't even sound like my own. It was hoarse and dead, it was the voice of hopelessness. When I turned around, she was looking at me with wide, afraid eyes. Searching me over, from bottom to top, stopping at my eyes.

She walked over to me quickly, but stopped herself from wrapping her arms around me. Her eyes were sad and intense as she stared into mine, "What happened?" She asked in a gentle, but authoritive voice, like she was caring towards me, but she was about to kick some major ass elsewhere. I didn't buy it.

"You're getting rid of me." I whispered, all of the stress, depression, and helplessness I'd been feeling throughout the night showing through in my voice. Her eyes widened and she looked at me, startled.

"What on Earth would make you think something as ridiculous as that?" She demanded, hand rising to gently touch my shoulder. I looked down. I didn't know how to state it without making me sound idiotic and childish. I ran my hand through my hair. Phil walked in, immediately sensing the tension and looking to Renee, who explained the situation. Now I had two very concerned and confused faces looking at me. I started walking to the kitchen, they followed behind.

I nervously, cautiously, as if afraid the can would jump out at me, opened the fridge door, pointing at the beer nestled obtrusively on the third shelf. Their expressions turned more confused. "Look, okay, I know it sounds childish and stupid but…" I paused, scratching behind my ear. "But, according to how things have worked in my life, alcohol means I'm about to leave and I-" My voice caught in my throat as I looked frightfully at that stupid shiny can. "I really, really don't want to leave. I won't have anyone." My eyes filled with tears I wouldn't allow to fall as I slowly closed the fridge door. "I only have six months left before I turn eighteen. I've been in this program for _ten years_ and haven't been adopted yet. Studies show that I will end up on the streets. I can't…" I trailed off, there was too much that I couldn't do.

Renee looked at me fiercely. "Bella, we love you as if you were our own. Hell, we're even signing adoption papers next month. I'm sorry, so sorry, if we scared you, but you need to realize that we will always be here for you." She was begging me to understand her words with the way that her eyes were searching my face.

"Bella, I see where you're coming from, but you need to know that we're different than your past homes. You're here to stay, until you decide to leave, and even then you're always welcome back." Phil went on to say, a sad look on his face.

I digested what they had said and stopped dead in my tracks. Papers? Adoption papers? My eyes flashed as I looked them back in the eyes, the irises that were dead a moment ago now full of excitement and a need for answers. "Papers?" I asked, not being able to keep the corner of my lip from quirking up. Their feature's lit up at the sight of my expression clearing. Renee bit her lip and nodded excitedly, a huge smile peeking through despite her lips between her teeth.

I looked between them both, Phil gave me a wide grin. "Really?" I confirmed, they gave another nod and I was jumping into their arms. Too many 'Thank You's s[ewed from me to count and then, I was in a group hug. I just knew I was going to look back on this one day and slap myself for being so mushy, but I didn't give a damn. This was life changing, these people had saved me from my pre-destined future, from the present, and from the past.

After things had settled down and we'd all had breakfast, I went back to my room. I sat on my bed, much like I had earlier this morning, and thought about how lucky I had been. Yeah, my childhood had sucked, but along the way, there had been a few people who had loved me and did love me and they're the ones that kept me going. They made sacrifices for me. I was not another statistic, I was a living person that made it through hell, coming out with a few bad burns that were already healing. My past couldn't destroy me now, and that's why I finally decided to reply to your letter.

I still love you, so glad you're doing better,  
Bella

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**AN: So, eh, hey, bet you ten dollars you weren't expecting this in your inbox, but it's what you got, so, yeah. Do you like it? Let me clear up a few things before I get started: Renee is not Bella's biological mother in this story, her mother is nameless. This story is supposed to be Bella's replying letter to Charlie, it shows him that he did the right thing for both him and her, even if she was broken along the way. Listen to 'Say It Ain't So' by Weezer while reading this story, it goes along well with it. Review! I love them more than Cervantes loves writing cruelly long books.**


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